


Every Breaking Wave

by Keyboardwielding_Squid



Category: Enderal (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 21:36:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20378512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keyboardwielding_Squid/pseuds/Keyboardwielding_Squid
Summary: Most ships merely pass in the night, but perhaps, if one waits long enough, a ship might finally come ashore.





	Every Breaking Wave

**Author's Note:**

> I blame Thanais and JillJoyce.

They come in pairs, always, much like Ritha and you once did.

It is never easy, and never gets any easier — by nature, of course, but also by design. You have seen disdain doom too many men to count, and you refuse to let it blunt you enough to doom your own guests. It will likely make no difference, but they at least deserve a _chance_. So you hone respect and care both to keep understanding alive, and try to let compassion guide your words as much as pride once did.

Hard work in itself, after so long.

It never gets any easier, but there is a routine to it. A sort of methodology to leaving hope behind. You've whittled it down to an art. _Several_ arts, to be accurate.

You'd taken to writing, at first, once it had become obvious to you that your voice would go unheard. Historical accounts of sorts, in the vein of those ancients tomes that had awed you in your childhood. You consigned each name and each achievement of mankind to paper, a silent scribe to every country, every change of the world's name.

Still, soon enough, all of them read like nothing but echoes and rhymes, as time let mankind fold itself in interchangeable layers, each more similar to the last, each burning to the ground in turn.

You'd tried to not let it bother you, to remember that their — _your_ — sameness was a treasure of its own. But one can only describe how the world burns down so many times. Weariness had won, in the end, and you'd set ink and quill aside. Time takes its toll, even on you.

_Especially_ on you, perhaps.

You'd moved to music, afterwards. Reed pipes, at first, then plucked strings arranged much like those of a lyre. With each new era and culture came a new harmony of sounds, and you thought of archiving those, in place of archiving people. The piano had come quite late — twelve, perhaps twenty Cycles in, in then-Asabti's capital. It had been love at first listen, and you had almost thought to steal the wonder from its maker's hands, afraid a Beacon would be lit and destroy the sound forever. Thankfully the woman had been amenable to sale, and for enough of your old gold to see her live well into old age, you'd taken what would become your one true jewel to your abode.

You'd taken to composing, in the beginning. You had woven your hopes and sorrows into garlands of bright notes, let them speak in your place when curious men peeked through your gates. But your songs were not heeded any more than your advice had been, and so you'd come to improvise, to let emotion guide your hands into whatever art would come. It filled the time and the silence, and you imagined that, perhaps, Ritha would one day sing with you.

The sculpting had come last of all, though your sheer productivity more than made up for the lateness. You had been just as gifted with blades and spells as ages before, and soon an army of silent silhouettes was born from your hands, each one a sentinel, a tomb for a lost world. Regrets sprung anew from your memories, and you carved them into wood, sculpted with all the care you had not known to give when sculpting men.

Some were reminders for yourself, of lessons best not forgotten; some were meant for your visitors, omens of what was sure to come.

They had not been understood any more than the words, books, or songs, but they had kept you company. They stood by Ritha through the night, museum of your better days and mausoleum of your worst, a graveyard for all the dead souls you could never afford to grieve.

Even now, they come in pairs. Always.

Always on that same quest, with that same vanity, that same conviction you'd once held that _this_ time will be the last one. That strength of will and strength of arms will bring the Cycle to a halt, make of recurrence a bad dream. That evil is without and not hiding within.

You cannot answer their questions; not in ways that satisfy them, that do not lead the cogs of fate to careening even faster. You've attempted many a time, and you have failed every last one. You cannot lift their burdens from their shoulders nor their minds, not without fracturing their beauty or damaging their purpose — but you can grant them the kindness of a night spent in a warm room. You can grant them all plushy beds, good music, and hearty dinners.

Every meal is different. You make a point of it. History and human nature may twist all things into echoes, but to your many successors — these people who, like you once did, crave naught more than being special — you can grant this one, painstakingly handmade bite of uniqueness. It takes patience and much research, but by the time each new Prophet comes to ring the bell at your gates, a new recipe awaits them, each prepared to suit its diner. Each crafted with just as much care as the wood you carve afterwards, a brand new ghost of a soon-to-be-dead world left to haunt your halls.

You travel far, for these dinners. You've crossed oceans by boat and spell, climbed atop mountains with bare feet. You have never done things halfway, and you are more than determined to spare no expense for this one. If time and fate cannot let you be more than a cook for a night, then you will cook to perfection — for the sake of your successors, and for the sake of memory.

Yet another thing to collect, to store in the vaults of your mind as a trace of a world gone by. Of lesser value to the world than your artworks and artifacts, but priceless to your soul as practice of how to remain human.

The last meal you served, you prepared from Nehrimese game and poultry, with potatoes and tomatoes picked in Ostian with your own hand. Wild apples, cranberries, and leek, you'd plucked from across the Sun Coast, and the wild herbs and juniper had been grown in your own garden. You'd sun-dried it all a little, made sure that the meat had aged well, then set it to roast over open flames until it charred just right. You'd made the broth from rainwater and copious amounts of sea salt; a little algae for texture, mixed with a spoon you'd carved yourself. It had tasted of home and doubt and charcoal in equal measure, all served in your best silverware, with your best wine, your best efforts — and every last bit of oblique warning you could weave into words.

They come in pairs, always, and so had they, of course. They'd left the plates just as untouched as all the others before them; ignored your statues, your recital, the true meaning of your letter. You'd left them the casket with just as heavy a heart as ever, then you had let your routine complete, left hope behind, and moved on.

You feel no need to watch the end. The white light always burns the same, each shriveled corpse a new proof of your failure to bring Ritha home.

Yet there had been no empty world waiting when you returned, this time. The mountains had stood tall, still bearing your likeness, yet a handful of impossible birds had flown the skies. The cliff had been shaken, some of its rock unmoored, but it, too, had held some rare life — a handful of mayflies and a cricket or two, buzzing atop this or that stone. Your wrought-iron fence had caved under the strength of some unseen wind, and yet the world had still been _there_, gray and old, right beyond the bars.

The grass had been laden with dust, the trees fallen, the skies cloudy, and you had stood as if struck dumb by the lack of complete silence.

You'd expected a vacuum, or two god-kings in their heaven.

You hadn't expected ruin to be confined to Enderal.

You had barely dared to explore, fearing any word, any breath could send the gears spinning anew. You'd kept to your abode and your not-so-deserted cliff, observing from afar, watching the winter turn. You'd been careful — and you still are — to not let hope flare up too soon. There have been outliers before. Ritha and you, so long ago. Eras lasting longer than most. Beacons lit with a slight delay. Emissaries assassinated only for new ones to rise.

Still the moons came and turned, the birds sang, and the crickets chirped. Still new small things — a frog, a mouse — came to rest on your windowsills, the shadow of a Myrad sometimes passing by the mountaintops. And still, one day, a boat sailed by flying the flag of Arazeal, almost surreal in the fog.

They come in pairs, always, and it takes them thousands of years. But this one rings your bell alone, a mere three years after the last. And when he comes, he bears a smile and a wine bottle in each hand, as if you were some good old friend he was all too happy to see.

"Greetings, Mysir Gajus," he says with a crooked smile, unkempt gray hair plastered to his face by the wind and pouring rain. "And to your companion as well. Our gratitude to both of you."

You remember the man, of course, from his roguish air to his stilted attempts at conversation. He is, much like the world, both old and new alike, seeming fragile — brittle, almost — in his continued existence.

He reminds you of Elimar before the light had taken him, and you have not been reminded of Elimar in quite some time.

"A dear friend of mine thought you in need of drinks and a long story," he goes on as you stay silent. "I happen to be Enderal's best and last remaining expert on inebriated chatter — and decent enough company to share bottles with, I've been told. Though you may have higher standards. I would never dare to presume."

You let the words wash over you to pay attention to his voice, the sadness under the humor, the tense wrinkles around his eyes. It answers most of your questions, and quite a few others besides.

You gather there will be no need for a second guest bed, this time.

"Forgive me, Mysir Dal'Varek," you answer him at length, walking all the way to your gates. "My manners seem to have taken their leave of me in my old age. Must I open the gate for you, or will you find a way to tresspass into my home unaided?"

"Wise Hermit, no, no," the man stutters, having, it seems, acquired some sense since your last encounter. "No, I've just come to bring our sympathies and a peace offering. Endralean wine. The very last! Dug out and rescued from the brewery two weeks ago, by yours truly, and after quite a bit of effort if I do say so myself. Not quite the brooch of a Seraph," he smiles that self-deprecating grin of Elimar's once more, "but more enjoyable, I'd say."

You stare at the man through the gate, arms crossed over your chest, brow furrowed. Still young and more than a bit of a fool, for all that his hair is whiter than yours and his eyes just as tired. You tap your foot, consider chances, wonder what eventualities could spring from an open door. No danger to you, you are sure; compared to your magical might, the man is but a babe in arms. But dangers to an auspicious fate are not so easily measured, and you find yourself frustrated, wishing you could merely observe.

You could. You'd only have to leave. But then when would there next come to be a man standing at your door, bearing nothing but gratitude, sympathy, and a cup of wine?

"You visit is... unexpected," you admit, for lack of better words. "And quite a surprise, to be frank."

"But a pleasant surprise, I hope," Dal'Varek answers, raising both of his bottle-filled hands.

The bottles are tied with ribbons, hastily cut from dust-spotted fabric. Some sort of old green cloth, perhaps, likely salvaged from the ruins. The rain plasters them to the glass like the man's hair to his forehead, but you still appreciate the attention, for some reason. Some old memory, perhaps.

"I find myself in the position of being uncertain, for once," you reply to the rain-drenched man, a rare, wry smile coming to stretch the corners of your lips. "Time will tell, as it always does."

Dal'Varek nods, as if he could have the slightest conception of how much you mean by the words. But then, what had Elimar been, if not charmingly impudent?

"So," Dal'Varek continues, giving the two bottles a shake. "Would you prefer to begin with the drinks, or with the long story?"

"Why not begin with the story," you tell the waiting man as you make to open your gates. "It so happens that I have just set meat to cook on the fire — though nothing quite so carefully prepared as for your last visit. If you'll forgive the humbler fare, then there is room at my table."

"Why not," the man nods, his smile tainted an instant by memories. "We didn't take the chance to taste it at all last time. Our apologies for the waste. It did look delicious."

You shake your head in humor as you step aside to let Dal'Varek pass, gesturing him onto the path with a hand as you close the gates again. The hinges whine like cattle to the slaughter, as they always do, but you find that the sound, for once, is not quite as mournful as you've grown to expect.

"Worry yourself not, Mysir Dal'Varek," you reassure the man. "It has been quite some time since I was last upset by the wastefulness of mankind."

"...I suppose it would," he agrees, cordially enough. "I suppose you have much better wine to drink than this one, as well."

"I do indeed," you say, laying a hand on his shoulder as you both begin to make your way up the path to your abode. "Nevertheless," you add, "I appreciate the spirit of the offer — and its sentimental value."

Dal'Varek nods mutely by your side, eyes fleeting from one statue to the next. He does not stop or slow his steps, but he greets them all as he passes, bowing his head, whispering thanks. Better thanks than fright, you suppose.

Better late than never at all.

"Who knows," you tell the man, "it way still age quite well. Endralean 8234 could yet prove a fine vintage."

"Here's to hope," Dal'Varek concurs — and there his smile finally breaks, the silent shudders of sobbing beginning to shake his shoulders.

You were never a man for embraces and soothing words, but you know Ritha would speak them, if she were standing in your place. And so you let your hand leave Dal'Varek's shoulder to circle his back, and run it through his hair, pressing his head to your shoulder to let him cry into your coat.

"Yes," you comfort Jespar Dal'Varek and the ghost of Elimar both, as you see them into your house like dreams rather than bad memories. "Here's to hope springing eternal."

**Author's Note:**

> Fic titled after "Every Breaking Wave" by U2.
> 
> Song and lyrics [here on Youtube.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uk3tO667pS8)


End file.
